


Sick and Stubborn

by Rhinozilla



Series: Detroit 07 [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Poor Connor, Sickfic, what connor deserves: snuggles, what connor gets: struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 02:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19052998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhinozilla/pseuds/Rhinozilla
Summary: Sequel to "The Worse Before the Better." Connor is sick, but he won't admit it. Hank only has so much patience until he intervenes.





	Sick and Stubborn

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by WayWardWonderer: "Maybe the damage to Connor's hand allowed some type of infection to get in his system and he starts behaving/looking sick and Hank has to figure out how to get the stubborn deviant to admit that he's in pain as well as sick."

Androids were designed to be more efficient than humans. They were smarter, stronger, and faster at pretty much everything compared to humans. On good days, that meant that Connor could analyze evidence, reconstruct a crime scene, locate a suspect, and apprehend them within an hour versus the whole days that it would have taken back in the time before androids. It was obnoxiously efficient, Hank thought.

Then there were days like this, when android design was not satisfied with being better at all the good stuff but also had to be faster at the bad stuff. What that meant was that whatever lingering issue was going on with Connor’s busted hand…it had fucked him up faster than the comparable infection would have a human. He went from perfectly fine when he got home, just a few hours after Hank was dismissed on suspension, to looking like Hell just three hours later.

Smarter, stronger, faster…but Hank would be damned if he let Connor be more stubborn.

The first, immediate clue that something was wrong was the fact that Hank had been watching a rerun marathon of some old procedural cop show from his college days, and Connor hadn’t said a word about it. He usually got all wound up about what the fictional cops were doing wrong, the evidence they were missing, and the breaches of professionalism that the drama demanded. Tonight? Nothing.

The second clue was that he didn’t pester Hank about ordering a pizza for dinner. Hank knew for a fact that Connor had maliciously filled the cabinets with healthy ingredients to match the healthy recipes he’d magnetized to the fridge. Hank usually couldn’t pick up the phone to place an order before Connor was waving healthy, alternative recipes at him to try instead. Tonight? Nothing.

The third clue was Sumo. Over the past hour, the dog had accumulated a small pile of every toy that he had at Connor’s feet where he was sitting on the couch. Connor had acknowledged him with a few ear scratches with his left hand, but for the most part, he seemed to be glued in his seat to the cushions. Sumo even busted out the big guns, letting out a whimper and resting his head on Connor’s knee to get his attention. It was usually enough to send Connor to his knees on the floor, giving the dog all the petting and rubbing that the big oaf could ever want. Tonight? Nothing.

Hank watched as Sumo finally gave up with a heavy, pitiful sigh, plodding away from Connor and flopping onto his bed in the corner of the living room. Hank could see Connor tracking the dog with his eyes, but he didn’t make any movement besides that. He remained sitting slightly slumped on the couch, still in his jacket and tie, his damaged right hand resting gingerly on his lap, and his gaze staring through the television without much focus. If Hank didn’t know any better, he’d say he looked sick.

Hank fidgeted once and lifted the bag of ice from his own hand where it was lying across the arm rest of the recliner. Gavin had a hard jaw, and just the one, solid punch that Hank had gotten on him had rendered most of his knuckles bruised and purple. The swelling had gone down, and he flexed his hand a few times. It was sore, but he’d punched harder things and felt worse consequences for it.

With a loud sigh, he climbed out of the recliner and stretched a bit.

“Your hand still hurting?” he asked, holding up the ice bag in offering.

Connor blinked slowly and barely shook his head. “No.”

Hank frowned but gave a shrug, going into the kitchen and tossing the half melted bag into the sink. He’d only made it through half of the pizza, and it was still sitting out: another thing that usually drove Connor up the wall, now getting no response. Hank closed the box and put the leftovers in the fridge.

“Your, uh, self healing program do its thing?”

“Yes,” came another uncharacteristic one-word answer.

Hank closed the fridge and returned to the living room, remaining standing as he pretended to watch the television show on the screen.

“My hand is fine, by the way, if you were wondering,” Hank said, waving his bruised hand in Connor’s direction.

“Good.”

Getting rankled now, Hank folded his arms. “So you are fully functional right now? No lingering effects from this afternoon?”

“Correct.”

Oh for fuck’s sake…

“Good, good, that’s good.” Hank pointed his thumb toward the backyard. “Well, I think I’m just going to take Sumo out back and shave all of his fur off. Y’know, he sheds so much, figure this might save some cleaning time if I just…” He made a shaving motion across the air. “…Take it all off.”

“Okay.”

Hank stomped into the living room, picked up the remote, and aggressively shut off the television. “All right, what is going on with you? You’ve been acting weird almost since you got home.”

Connor blinked, like he was coming out of a trance, and squinted up at Hank, clearly struggling to focus. “Nothing is going on, Hank.”

“Yeah, nothing, and since when do you sit and do nothing?” Hank stated.

Connor frowned. “You have expressed annoyance that I ‘fidget’ and have asked that I sit still and do nothing on several occasions. Why is it bothering you now that I’m doing just that?”

“Because you’re being all…” Hank gestured vaguely. “Not like yourself. I think something’s still wrong with your hand, and you’re being stubborn about it.”

Connor’s brows knit together. “What would that accomplish?” Without waiting for a response, he spoke again. “The self healing program was completed two hours after I arrived home.”

“Then convince me. Do this.” Hank held up his hand and wiggled all five fingers.

Connor looked put out, but he obliged, lifting his right hand and mimicking the motion. The artificial skin had returned across his mended fingers, and the wiggling motion looked natural enough.

“Satisfied?” he said, lowering his hand again.

“No, actually,” Hank retorted, crossing over to stand beside the couch. “Do me a favor and run a self diagnostic.”

It looked like the idea of doing that exhausted Connor. “Why?”

This was going nowhere. Hank huffed and reached out, putting his palm across Connor’s forehead. He felt warmer than normal.

“What are you doing?” Connor asked, remaining still.

“Running my own diagnostic.” Hank replied, taking his hand back. “You’re running hotter than usual. You’re acting lethargic and seem to be having trouble focusing. Your energy level is down, and you’ve hardly moved or spoken since you got home.”

Resigned, Connor looked up at him. “Your conclusion?”

Hank snorted, straightening up. “You’re sick.”

Resignation shifted into confusion. “Androids don’t get sick.”

“Maybe not in the conventional sense, but something has got you messed up tonight.” Hank sat on the coffee table in front of the couch and gestured for Connor to give him his hand. “Only thing out of the ordinary today was you getting your hand smashed in a door. So either let me see, or run your own test thingy.”

Connor stared at him, and his LED cycled from blue to yellow as he begrudgingly initiated the self diagnostic. Hank took that little victory and went ahead and took Connor’s mended hand while the system ran. The artificial skin covered the points of damage, and Hank decided not to push his luck by asking him to retract the skin so he could inspect the plastic. Wasn’t sure what he’d be looking for anyway. Instead, he ran his fingers over the knuckles, applying pressure at certain points. If android hands had the same internal structure as human hands, then everything felt like it was in the right place. There didn’t seem to be any remaining pain or discomfort around the mended damage.

Hank let go, and Connor pulled his hand back toward himself. His LED shifted back to blue, and Hank waited for the results.

Connor’s eye twitched as he processed it. “There is a foreign contaminant in my thirium supply.”

Hank sat up straighter. “What? How bad?”

Connor shook his head, reading whatever information was scrolling across his vision. “Trace amounts of…It must have entered the open thirium lines in my hand before the self healing program repaired all of the damage. A subroutine of my healing program has been continuously running to isolate the tainted thirium. It has caused mild overheating as a result.”

Hank narrowed his eyes in concern. “How serious is it? You gonna get any worse?”

“I don’t believe so, but the contaminant has already spread across forty percent of my thirium supply. Though there isn’t much of it, it will take a while to isolate and remove.” Connor frowned as he inspected his hand.

Hank leaned sideways, corralling Connor’s drifting eyes to meet his own. “So…what’s the contaminant?”

Connor averted his eyes and was suddenly restless, sitting forward on the couch before abruptly standing. He almost teetered for a split second, long enough for Hank to hold out his hands in case he decided to take a header into the floor.

“Connor.” Hank snapped his fingers to get his attention, standing up as well. “Did you touch something? Is that how it got in your system?”

“Sort of…” The vague answer made Hank’s eyebrows rise.

His dad voice kicked on despite himself. “What is it?”

Connor looked slightly embarrassed, but he rolled his neck and straightened his spine in an obvious attempt to shake it off. “Apparently, my healing program had not completely closed the protective casing around my fingers by the time I returned home and…when Sumo greeted me at the door…he licked my hand and…saliva got into residual cracks.”

Hank wasn’t sure if it was the halting, awkward way he confessed it, the fact that he didn’t look Hank in the eye as he said it, or the pure irony of the answer itself, but regardless, a laugh burst out of him before he could help it.

“Holy shit, seriously?” he chuckled, stepping away and looking from Connor, to Sumo, and back to Connor. “Wow, that just…You can’t make that shit up.”

Connor looked affronted at Hank’s reaction, and his expression pinched together in irritation. “Why would I make that up? I don’t see what’s so funny, Hank.”

Hank motioned for Connor to follow him down the hall to the bathroom. Connor helplessly complied.

“You spend your time at crime scenes ‘analyzing’ some of the nastiest crap in the city. Part of your job is licking evidence, and no reaction. But one dog licks YOU, and you go down hard. That is…fucking hilarious,” Hank guffawed. “Wash your hands.”

Connor glared at him. “I already—“

“Just do it,” Hank leaned against the door frame. “Another rinse won’t hurt, and it’ll make me feel better.”

Connor’s pout remained in place as he gave in and washed his hands again. “You seem to feel better enough finding amusement at my expense.”

“Ah Hell, Connor.” Hank dialed his humor back a little. “Of course it’s not funny that you’re sick, but the circumstances that led up to it have an ironic ring to them.” He shrugged. “Besides, you said yourself it isn’t going to get any worse than this, and your system is already cleaning it all out…That the same process as when you clean out all the evidence you’ve put in your mouth?”

Connor dried off his hands, steady on his feet as he swiveled to glare at Hank some more. “The evidence that I sample does not get routed into my thirium supply, Hank. The contaminated thirium will have to be purged and replaced.”

“Forty percent of it? Sounds like a lot.” Hank mentally catalogued the bottles of spare thirium they kept in the house. “Should be covered with what we got in inventory here.”

Connor nodded. “The filtration cycle should be complete in the next two hours. Then, hopefully, we can put this behind us and—“

“And not mention it again? I dunno, it’s gonna be a pretty good story.”

Connor’s eyes turned pleading. “Hank…”

Dammit.

“All right, all right, mum’s the word.” Hank waved him off, heading back into the living room.

The TV was turned back on, and the procedural cop drama rolled on until the evening light darkened into night time. Connor made an effort to be more animated about the show, but Hank could tell he was just going through the familiar motions for Hank’s sake.

Hank ended up dozing off in the recliner just as the street lights were flickering on outside. The marathon transitioned into the late night talk show hour, and Hank woke up to the sound of vomiting.

He bolted up out of the chair, but Connor wasn’t in the living room.

“Connor?” He isolated the sound to the bathroom and made his way down the hall.

The door was open, and there was his partner, kneeling before the porcelain god and painting the bowl blue.

“Christ,” Hank’s first reaction was to recoil, but he overrode it and stepped into the room. “Time to purge and replace, huh?”

Connor was gripping the sides of the toilet with his elbows locked. His eyes were screwed shut, like he didn’t want to see the mess any more than Hank did. His mouth and chin were blue, as was his nose where the thirium had been coming up that way as well. Connor raised his head but didn’t open his eyes to answer Hank.

“It is unpleasant.”

“Yeah,” Hank drawled, crossing over and feeling Connor’s forehead again. “Still warm. Here.”

He tugged on the shoulder of Connor’s jacket, and Connor relented, letting Hank help him out of it. Hank tossed it out into the hallway before taking his tie too and getting him to undo the top few buttons of his white dress shirt.

“Any better?” he asked, tossing the tie into the hallway with the jacket. “What’s your core temperature?”

“A hun—“ Connor gagged and his back bowed, but nothing came up this time. “A hundred point four.”

“Android baseline temperature is about the same as a human, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that isn’t too bad then.” Still, Hank grabbed a hand towel from the linen closet and dampened it under the sink faucet, taking it back and flattening it across the back of Connor’s neck. “Ready to admit that you’re sick?”

Connor’s response was to bow forward again, heaving another rush of blue liquid into the toilet. Hank grimaced, rubbing a few circles between Connor’s shoulders in an attempt to provide some comfort.

“Are you steady? I’m going to grab the thirium from the kitchen.”

“Y-yes.”

Giving his shoulder a final pat, Hank moved from the bathroom to the kitchen and pulled three bottles of thirium from the cabinet. He made a pit stop at his bedroom, fishing out a spare pair of grey sweatpants and a red t-shirt.

When he returned to the bathroom, Connor was flushing the toilet and tumbling sideways to lean against the tub. The lower half of his face was stained blue, as was the top of his shirt. His synthetic skin was fluctuating from opaque to transparent in a few places from the exertion. He took the cool towel from his neck and started wiping at his face with it.

“Is it over?” Hank asked, offering one of the thirium bottles.

Connor cleared his throat, grimacing at whatever that tasted like, and took the bottle. “The contaminated thirium has all been expelled from my system.”

He sat up laboriously and opened the bottle, drinking at it slowly. Hank eyed him, and Connor noticed.

“What?”

“You look disgusting.”

Connor made a face and grabbed the side of the tub, using it as an anchor to get his legs under him. “If you recall, I did not make such judgmental remarks to you when you were sick.” His knees wobbled a bit, weak from thirium loss, but he stubbornly got to his feet. “But I can guess that you looked wo-worse then than I do now.”

Hank held his hands out, ready to catch the idiot if he collapsed, but Connor made it to his feet and stayed there belligerently.

“You’re probably right.” Hank gestured to the spare clothes he’d brought. “Put those on. Yours are all…blue.”

“The thirium will evaporate in a few hours…”

“But it’ll still be there, and I don’t like the idea of you sleeping on my couch covered in your own blood.”

“…Fair point.”

Hank snorted and returned to the living room. Too restless to sit down, he found himself rooting into the linen closet and digging out a pillow and spare blankets. He tossed them on the couch, paused, and then situated the pillow against the armrest of one side of the couch. He stuck another bottle of thirium in the fridge to help Connor cool down faster, and then scrolled through the video library on his television, finding a good movie to put on.

He’d just made a selection when Connor stepped out of the bathroom, successfully changed into the pajamas and looking drained by the act of being ill and the thirium loss.

“Park it.” Hank nodded toward the couch.

Connor looked puzzled at the pillow and blanket on the couch, but he sat regardless.

“Without doing your cyber…brain…search…thing.” Hank gestured vaguely and then pointed at the movie title queued up on the screen. “Have you ever seen this movie?”

Connor glanced to the screen. “I’ve never seen any movie. I can download—“

“No!” Hank took a step forward as though to stop him. “The point of watching a movie is to experience a story. You can’t just get all the details airdropped into your head. You go in not knowing what’s going to happen, and you let it suck you in.”

“…Why?”

Hank shrugged, sinking back into the recliner. “People like distractions when they’re feeling bad. I figured since you were…ah, never mind.” He started to turn off the TV.

“Wait,” Connor lifted a hand. “I…wouldn’t mind a distraction.”

Hank paused. “So you’re admitting that you feel bad?”

Connor was quiet for a long moment, seemingly unwilling or unable to admit he felt shitty. Hank decided to wait him out. After a few more seconds, Connor caved with a sigh, lying down across the couch on his side and making use of the pillow and blanket. It was close enough.

“No cheating,” Hank warned, hitting play on the video. “No looking up what happens.”

Connor looked curious but too tired to argue. “I promise.”

The black screen of the TV reflected their own faces back at them as the film started.

A beat passed.

“It’s not much of a distraction, Hank,” Connor said dryly as nothing happened.

“Smart ass.”

Soon enough, blue words appeared on the black screen.

_A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…_


End file.
